4/12/2020 0 Comments Poetry by Kelsey May Elo Vazquez CC Imagine If I were Home in My Body a meditation Imagine if the planets could circle here, intrinsic to my stardust hippocampus, imbuing their celestial knowledge on my fragile, mortal mind. What weeks would grow from my spine? What blessings would pour from my palms? Beneath streetlamps, I’d glow, burn, orbit a new purpose; the gutter would collect my clothes as I ascended, ready to enter a new plane of existence. The body is what we make of it: I intend to redesign my fingerprints after meteors, extend my tastebuds into galaxies invisible to the naked eye. My gaze is a word away from perfect. If there’s an opening for nebulae, dig my roots into the sky, now home. Saltwater Heart as Tidepool with the Waves Washing In I’m terrified to write about it because to pin it to paper would be to admit. I’m terrified of the admitting, of the truth barreling me over, demonstrating my weakness, my stupidity. The truth is: I wasn’t weak or stupid. Victims aren’t weak or stupid. We’re endurance as rock, as kind-hearted cardinals giving the dawn songs, we’re flashing sunbeams, the reason everything grows. We radiate, gleam, and this is celebration. This is carrying the world on our shoulders, getting shit done, and giving second chances. Brave heart, wanting the best for someone isn’t a flaw. You care, and you tried, and you made it out shining, a seastar made of emeralds. And you will love again. ![]() Kelsey May is a writer, educator, and activist from Grand Rapids, Michigan. Her work has appeared in NonBinary Review, Turnpike Magazine, Paste Magazine, and The Broken Plate and has received two Pushcart Prize nominations. She interviews poets and other miscellaneous people at Hyype. She loves birdwatching, reading, and her husband.
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